“I mean to,” she replied. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. The cage at Willesden was, and is—for it is still standing—a small round building about eight feet high, with a pointed tiled roof, to which a number of boards, inscribed with the names of the parish officers, and charged with a multitude of admonitory notices to vagrants and other disorderly persons, are attached. Springing to his feet in an ecstasy of terror, he stumbled, and had well nigh realized his worst apprehensions. Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned. And for many years, that was the way it was.
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